My faith lived valiantly till the next spring. It was Hebe who
was faithless. The cherry-tree was dead, for its dryad had
gone,--fled, said evil tongues, fled away to the town!

But as yet, in the time to which my thoughts return, our sweet
secret mornings were known only to ourselves. It was my custom
then to rise early, to read Latin authors,--thanks to Hebe, still
unread. I used to light my fire and make tea for myself, till
one rapturous morning I discovered that Hebe was fond of rising
early too, and that she would like to light my fire and make my
tea. After a time she began to sweeten it for me. And then she
would sit on my knee, and we would translate Catullus
together,--into English kisses; for she was curiously interested
in the learned tongue.

How lovely she used to look with the morning sun turning her hair
to golden mist, and dancing in the blue deeps of her eyes; and
once when by chance she had forgotten to fasten her gown, I
caught glimpses of a bosom that was like two happy handfuls of
wonderful white cherries . . .

She wore a marvellous little printed gown. And here I may say
that I have never to this day understood objections which were
afterwards raised against my early attachment to print. The only
legitimate attachment to print stuff, I was told, was to print
stuff in the form of blouse, tennis, or boating costume. Yet,
thought I, I would rather smuggle one of those little print gowns
into my berth than all the silks a sea-faring friend of mine
takes the trouble to smuggle from far Cathay. However, every one